They're rowdy. They're in a mood. Got an urge to hear that ol' delirious gut-snicker, the unique sound that takes six or seven hours of animal howls and growls to get to. 'And when it's sung right, they're gonna want a whole lot of encores.
No more weekend punks, not tonight. They're gonna get 'em a vet, or some seriously skittish turf they can break in right. They want noise and they want it now. Pained hilarity... intense reflex. There's always time to sling ink later. Next week. But now...
The threefold crew scans the streets for a lucky winner. All-expense-paid stay at the Tactile Hotel: a two-room servants' house way off 6th and Olive, hidden by huge maple and palm trees, a decade of undisturbed leaves and branches surrounding it on all sides. Forgotten, ignored... Ah, but inside! Steel-core door and bars with the finest locks; electricity run with extreme sneakiness from the nearest neighbor more than a half-acre away; old hand-pump still working great. Soundproofing so good it foiled The Screamer, a dude with amazing lungs who tried round the clock to raise somebody and never knew, as they did, how faint his hollering was just six inches outside the cottage. Five ways to anchor and suspend their guests...
The Hotel reeks of delighted suffering. Marathon, ecstatic anguish saturates the foam rubber with the smells of sweat and cum and stale smoke.
Smoke is what ramped 'em up tonight. The partners each came back from stocking up on supplies with a couple weeks' worth each... Slow dropped five cartons of Camels on the bed, Hard showed up with sixty packs of 'Boros and Deep added three boxes of cigars - and the sight of all that tobacco layin' there on the rubber sheet spelled out an extended, unhurried time. Open-ended reservation for a hefty touch-sensitive fucker.
Slow excels at long-haul... and mindfuck. Hard is the thrashmeister and the resident expert on restraints. Deep knows all about toys, tweaks and tattoos. They run the joint and they work together real well. They prefer to see their visitors huffin' smoke - just about the last thing on his mind, so they'll shoot for a good four packs a day.
The Hotel's stocked in every conceivable way. Cases of supplies that'll easily last a month.
Time's a-wastin'. The suite must be filled. Now. Hindered wriggling, drastically happy noise...
Zooming in on a teenager - but he's not reactive at all. There's gotta be somebody out tonight who can take the heat and really make it pay... Slackers in threes and fours, a couple prospects if they went their separate ways fairly soon. On Union, a few wanderers and street people, all older and drunk, testing out poorly.
Young guy in a suit leaving the grocery store. A long way to haul, but...
Wait. There - coming down Cahuenga, crossing 9th. Leather, knapsack, smokin', easy swagger. Strong, healthy pace. Picturing him on the angle rack, wearing rawhide on each limb and a week's worth of beard. Bitin' hard on a stogie, utterly crazed grin -
Coming closer every second. All alone. Interceptors swing down...
Yeah. They can see this guy enduring a half-dozen grueling activities, lots of combinations... He fires up a new cig without missing a step, maybe half a minute since springing away the last butt - and their determination ramps up further.
Across 7th, passing that empty lot -
The knapsack. Yanked, turning him halfway around. Nobody there.
His zipper jacket is tugged down, and dark blurs slip in and press just so -
He leaps almost a yard!
Pressure closes over his ribs, scrabbling up his back, down the sleeves of his t-shirt. Finding neck tendons, armpit hair. Good muscles. Several tats -
A loud, abbreviated yelp. Grunting, trying to run... Full-blown panic, intense reflex with no conscious ability to evade.
Clamps lock onto his kneecaps. He hoots distractedly, collapsing in a heap, cigarette dropped and rolling away.
The right stuff. Hotel material, their kind of clientele. His room is ready - and they're too glad to show him the way there.Soft gloves fold carefully over his eyes and mouth. Others slide down his pants, blanket his limbs... Hard folds him up, Soft cripples him further by pinching his inner thighs. He rises a couple feet off the ground and floats west, while Deep checkes his artwork, pockets, knapsack...
Under the freeway, down to 5th, past Bertram and Griffith, over a fence whose owners are just about deaf... he's pulling hard, making short guttural noises. All but paralyzed. Over again, down through tree branches, flying quickly to the open door of his suite. Right this way.
Into the darkness. Bars clanking, door sweetly thunking - the electrifying rush of throwing the deadbolts! Privacy, please. Not a snowball's chance they'll be disturbed... or that his next few weeks will be anything less than hysterically disturbing.
Click - light. Single overhead bulb out of his reach. He lays on the floor, starting to uncurl... takes in the padded room, maybe fifteen by twenty, windowless. King-size bed in the center. Slowly, he gets to his feet.
Cotton sheet with a bright pattern. Peacock feathers. On the near end: a hospital urinal, a quart of club soda and a pack of Camels.
He stares at the hardwood floor under him... hundreds of cigarette burns. The thick, browned foam rubber on the ceiling, the walls - except the curtain. He rushes over, grabs a thick, yellowed handful -
Bars. Thick iron. Full-length mirrors behind 'em show his stricken face.
Enjoy your stay.
He gets the panicky yelling over with. Trying to rattle his cage, but it's well-crafted... He yells more, slams around looking for a hidden exit, learns he can't pull down or ignite the inches of foam.
Threatening.
Starting to plead... hand going into his pocket for a smoke. His pack's gone.
And he knows his way around nonfilters just fine. This li'l animal will do 'em proud. Makes 'em all the more glad to run the place.
Sometimes they just outdo themselves.
More yelling, more smokin'... he sucks down half the water. A few more butts trying to move the bed, reach the mirrors, find a trip-lever for the bars. He steps back, scowling.
A big yawn.
Angry again. Loud, steady cussing. About a cup of water...
Using the urinal, that's a good boy. Eyes starting to droop. Firin' up another Camel. Very, very good...
He slumps back on the bed. Didn't seem to notice the tiny hole in the twist-off cap from a hypodermic. Just a little longer, and he'll be fully prepared.
Deep knocks the cig from his fingers and drags him off the bed. He thumps on the floor and doesn't stir. Hard brings the blocky leather straps, and Soft peels him and starts treating his skin.
They don't want the first act to be marred by dehydration, so his head's titled back and a thin tube drizzles water down his throat, and the urinal is set in position. He gets a complimentary crewcut so his neck and ears are easy to get to... with a swath of full-length hair left to form a limp roostertail.
When he's pissed away most of the agua, a spray bottle coats his mouth and throat with glycerin. Wiped down, hoisted to the bed... wrists and ankles wrapped, cuffed, leashed tight.
One more light coating of softener.
A lit Camel is stuck between his lips.
And a big syringe of testosterone is being poked into a foot-vein. His eyes open, and close again. He coughs out smoke.
Not quite two hours since he checked in... their VIP deserves the propietors' unflagging hospitality.
He tugs on the Camel again, squinting and trying to get up. Unequivocally helpless!
Flat on his back - staring at the cuffs, the straps... Eyes widening at his lack of clothes - stuttering loudly.
The curtain, between bars and mirror, is thrown open -
He starts begging. Begging. Trying to turn, to pull on the straps.
Shiny, black -
Coming slowly. He's frantic, thunderstruck - wide open! Absolutely stuck...
Lustrous, filled... gloves. Satin. Thirty dark hands cruising down to his bed.
For the last few seconds, he's whimpering, tense as a highwire, not moving at all. Watching them arrive at wildly squeamish places...
The Hotel's massage service hasn't left his side.
Either side. All sides.
A week now, and he's strong, vigorous, touchy as ever. Bullseye. Goin' for the record, he is... more supplies are easy enough to get. The trio knows their way around him alright. How to keep him healthy, maniacally grinning all day and laughin' hard all night. Conscious, alert... responsive...
He's only into his third carton, but he'll catch up fairly soon. Just gets too addled and keeps droppin' live butts on himself.
Deep has an incredible mural planned for his back and arms - whirlwind of feathers, calfskin straps... and gleaming black hands. For the past three days he's stared at a red Hotel logo inked below his breastbone, with a leather strap circling into a 'T' superimposed over the 'H'. And three gloves reaching for his face.
Now, his t-shirt covers the tat. They've dressed him, adding a pair of well-cut racing gloves. He's slept well, all's ready. They wake him up.
Squinting in confusion at his own clothes... 'Boro smokin' between his fingers, wedged between calfskin. He's holding a bottle, too - fifth of bourbon, three-quarters empty.
They help him drink up. A couple shots despite his struggling, added to the downers just kicking in -
He finishes the cig wobbily, on his own. Satin closes over his arm again, making sure he empties the bottle.
Hearing someone, his head turns toward the curtain -
A voice. Faint, but... leaves, branches being... walked on, and a young voice.
It takes him a few long seconds. "Hey." He starts to stand - "HEY!" Sits backs down heavily. He tries to stand, yelling when he can manage it. The sounds continue. Outside sounds -
Collapsing forward, the forgotten bottle rolling away, he starts to crawl. Slowly making it to the curtain -
Pulled back suddenly, revealing a box on the floor outside the bars. Less than a yard from him... With serious effort, he squints at -
Boom box. A tape. Tape of people... walking in the woods, a yard like this maybe. Just a tape.
The door is still shut tight. The 'stop' button is pressed - a loud click.
His eyes unfocus, his head drops, and he's out again.
Hard clanks the Zippo shut, a fierce snap. He sucks in while he wrestles... exhaling as a glove closes in.
One glove. Slow, touching his armpit, skimming down to his hip. Their guest spasms, grunts, flails at the straps. Nothing else they can do will provoke such an inordinate reaction for so little effort. The least stroke, the most gentle prod or squeeze hits him like a taser! Jump and grin, completely unwilling.He peers at the cuff on his left wrist, studying, twisting it this way and that...
Slow makes another pass. His eyes slam shut, body quivering as the satin slides down. Lunatic smile.
So much for so little...
Six or seven passes a minute.
He can just barely eat and drink in between, smokin' otherwise, trying to concentrate on freeing an arm or a leg.
Four hundred strokes. He's not squirming now. Dripping sweat, except for his left side. His face is pained and delighted. Just laying there, grinning, breathing out smoke.
Another hand comes, lands - mirroring the first. Down they go -
Chuckles, head jerking, hands making fists.
They stagger some of their passes, and ride a little more firmly when they're simultaneously on the move... forcing thick, vague laughs out of him.
When he opens his eyes, Deep sends some gloves on up...
He hangs belly-down, fidgeting as four hands draw close.
To his feet. Not on 'em... curling, as if they're about to land and squeeze. Fingers just... barely off his skin. If he could turn or bend his ankles, he'd bump right into 'em.
He stares at the gloves threatening the soles of his feet, all but poking into the cracks between his toes.
Slow, subdued chuckling and hooting...
A cigar is shoved between his teeth.
The teasing makes him chortle again as soon as he's puffed the stogie to life. Any second now, the pantomime will become the real thing... he'll start to buck, and howl, shuddering hard... feet staying exactly where they are, with satin kneading 'em ruthlessly -
Like countless times before. Not a damn thing he can do...
A new cigar is lit from the old one. Tugging on it wearily -
Flash of black.
He perks up as more hands rise, going... Over him. Barely off the surface of his ass, tracing the curves of his butt cheeks, fingertips slipping in and out of view on either side of his balls.
His second day on the sitting bench was kicked off by Slow. Water, and a couple pair of leathers greasing him up... Standard massage at the beginning - the kind humans pay each other for, just like a better hotel would have referrals for. Or an in-house masseuse...
Loosening him up despite his best attempts to stay wary. Relaxing him... getting his guard down. Now he could nod right off. But that would defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? Nobody gets the best room in the place and then does nothing else but sleep in it.
That would be... a waste, pointless, almost like cheating him. A disservice. Like promising and not delivering... that may be status quo these days, but it's not the way this establishment is run. Anything less than doting on a guest's every need, anticipating the smallest touches before they ever crossed the guest's mind, would be a betrayal.
In keeping with that philosophy, the Camels were set aside and a new pack of 'Boros opened. When he stirs, he bites the filter lazily... demonstrating the purpose of the change in brands.
And the leather gloves start again, on his neck and shoulders. Same dawdling pace, but the grip is... different. Their fingertips press into tender folds and crevasses, sliding over him almost steadily now. Overly... invigorating. Insisting their way down his arms and chest.
He's tensing up, starting to sweat. Chucking and writhing in stuporous, constant slow-motion. Smirking...
Provoked for the rest of the pack.
Lunch, water...
Another two hours of oiling him up, then teasing all the peace back out of him.One last pass with softener... and he manages sucking another cigarette to life.
He swallows more water with difficulty, worn out from the afternoon's palpations. If he's realized yet that his legs are anchored almost together today, he sure hasn't shown it.
A glove brings him the piss bottle, waits for him, carries it away.
It's time to upshift. Hard takes the keys.
It's been about forty hours since he's been balls-out loud.
An extension cord snakes out from the lobby. When he finally looks, he sees a three-way adapter being pushed into the socket, dropped past his feet.
His Camel is yanked. He looks at the object coming... from beyond the bars -
Radial buffer. Heading his way. The pad has a black cover - very shiny, familiar, a good ten inches across...
More than wide enough to span both his feet.
A couple of smokes to wake up. Then a breakfast of chocolate and one of those nasty high-nutrient shakes...
First cigar of the day.
The trio is smugly pleased at the resilence and strength they've nurtured. His health could turn, but not before they get another twenty-four out of him.
He lay watchfully still, puffing little clouds.
His arms are just about finished. Sharp animated feathers, straps, cigs and little gloves dance from shoulder to the tangle of chain tattooed around each wrist. Like neon signs shouting "ticklish". "High-endurance"...
The outlining across his shoulders is almost there. Their logo on his chest has healed completely, a little faded from the serious sweatin' he's done... two inches above his belly button, Deep added a single white feather. Trail markers...
They each send a dozen gloves through the bars, six heading right for that lean navel.
He squints - and cusses, watching them close the gap. On the bed again, stretched across it, all bare and restless... Chomping on the cigar until it's taken away. Tugging long and hard on the straps, wired and desperate, knowing and yet unaccepting of the gloves' intentions. Aware of what the next hours will bring.
Thirty satin gloves wait over him, and the vanguard drops to his stomach. Impossibly casual hands fold and curl gently, rotate and spread out -
All around his navel. His very, very worst spot. The proprietors know it full well... and how hard they can push without him passing out.
A wail turns into a high-pitched stream of giggles. Fingers slide and squeeze, continuing week number four of personal service.
They speed up a little. Thirty hands, gettin' down.
He gives up the struggle and lay there, too whipped to howl anymore. Hard, automatic roar.
Gloves continue blanketing his limbs, kneading fully healed tats they gave him, totally covering his crotch. He can't come 'til they pull some satin off him, no fuckin' way.
Five weeks. He checked into the VIP suite way back in April, thirteen cartons ago. Here he is still frantically enjoying their hospitality in June. Not a day has gone by without a shift or two of meticulous hands-on attention. Black-glove inspection, service with - no, service forhis big ol' deranged smile.
They never think of this as "working him over". That would be as much of an understatement as saying Fast is "tickling" his solidly inked deltoids, or Deep is just "teasing" his ankles and toes. They're not experimenting with him. After all these weeks, they're getting exactly the result they want.
Fucking with him? Goin' to town?
Nothing so imprecise for the Hotel hands.
He's slept the night away. Some cold or flu had got him, and they figure it's finally time for him to check out and be on his way... He lay in his own clothes, cuffed and shackled, pumped full of vitamins and antibiotics.
After finishing off the smokes - again - the day before, he huffed a big joint after dinner. And they'd let him sleep since then. First twenty-four he hadn't been forced to chuckle once. All in all, though, not a bad record at all.Curious, they push him around until he stirs. Not any surprise left in him, not anymore... He discovers the fetters and quits moving, starting to cough. Kleenex is brought up to him, a half-gallon of water, a urinal stuck in position...
His hacking was all but gone. Looks like the infection is history, too... A two-inch 'Boro butt rises from the hundreds on the floor. His Zippo is fished out of his jacket.
Lookit that. Smokin' just fine. Hmmm.
A little more sleep, and... good as new.
A brown bag lands. Two cartons of Reds and a carton of Camels. A dozen Panatelas, a quarter-ounce of weed.
He's rebounded bigtime, looks strong enough for another week or so. They're feeding him a lot, and they keep the erythromycin and antioxidants coming. Deep wants to finish sleeving him.
Third smoke, and he nods. Out like a light.He wakes up on his own... hanging on the wall. Flagpole with a cock ring between his legs. 'Strone added back to the meds. Inked right up to the wrist-cuffs, well below his pecs.
Groaning, again, but his breathing is back to normal. A water bottle arrives insistently. A Camel, his lighter.And a few dozen fingers floating over... threatening his midsection. Nothing new here. They're not out for novelty - the tried and true works just fine.
Deep glides just off his skin. Slow dries some gigantic mitt-like wraps that'll each hide an entire foot as they twist. Hard unwraps a cigar.
Squirming, he makes contact with a few satin hands - and starts to snicker.
Week number six is underway.
31jul98